Shattered world
by Geraldine
Summary: Toby finds out that Sam has a problem. WARNING : adult subject.
1. Part 1

Title : Shattered world  
  
Author : Géraldine  
  
Email : lazy.gege@ibelgique.com  
  
Category : Drama/angst/ESF . Yes, I made Sam miserable. Again.  
  
Characters : Sam and Toby  
  
Summary : Did he have the right to let Sam deal on his own with whatever was eating him?  
  
Disclaimer : They belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, NBC, Warner Brothers, and I hope I haven't forgotten anyone. So obviously, they don't belong to me. I'm not making money for this story, I just have too much free time on my hands.  
  
Spoilers : Everything up to Posse Comitatus is fair game.  
  
Rating : R  
  
WARNING : Deals with sexual abuse. If the topic disturbs you, please be a responsible reader and hit delete.  
  
Thanks a lot to my beta reader, RoseRed.  
  
SHATTERED WORLD  
  
Géraldine  
  
---------------------  
  
PART ONE  
  
Toby was at his desk, typing furiously on his laptop, when the phone rang. He cursed. The day had been a long succession of meetings with people he suspected had been put on Earth only to frustrate him and he hadn't had the time to write half the drafts he was supposed to. He was finally in the zone now; he didn't need any distraction. He grabbed the receiver and barked, "What?" hoping to scare off whoever was calling him.  
  
For a long moment he only heard silence. On any other day, he would have hung up, exasperated at having been disturbed for nothing while writing. But something made him hesitate. "What?" he repeated, more forcefully.  
  
"You didn't tell me."  
  
Sam. Sounding both mad and incredibly depressed at the same time. And more than a little drunk.  
  
"Look, Sam, I don't have - "  
  
"Should have told me," Sam continued. "I d-d-deserved to ."  
  
His deputy didn't finish his sentence and Toby felt a lump beginning to form in his stomach. He was used to Sam being frustrated at being kept out of the loop - although in this case, it had been an honest mistake. Tonight however, Sam sounded . bad.  
  
"I thought we were beyond that. Or above that," Sam stated before letting out a tired sigh. "Whatever, I'm just going to . "  
  
When he didn't finish his sentence, Toby tried to insist. "Sam, come on. Talk to me. What are you . "  
  
"Never ." came the mumbled answer, and Toby waited but nothing more came. He stood abruptly, disrupting the neatly arranged pile of folders Ginger had put on his desk before leaving.  
  
"Sam, did you take something?" he asked worriedly. It wasn't like Sam to sound this down. Usually, when he was angry about something his boss had done, he let it be known.  
  
"Drunk," Sam confirmed.  
  
"Are you home?" Toby asked.  
  
When his deputy didn't answer and failed to respond to his insistent questioning, Toby dropped the phone and grabbed his coat, checking that his keys were in his pocket before leaving his office.  
  
**********  
  
He didn't think he'd ever driven that fast, and he hoped he hadn't ignored too many red lights on his way to Sam's place. He didn't panic easily - at most, he was a pessimist. However, it was not like Sam to drink to the point of losing consciousness. Not that his deputy had been acting like his usual self lately. Everyone on the senior staff had noticed that. If only they'd known how to help him. Unfortunately, the betrayals and disillusionments were beginning to add up and they were seriously wondering when Sam would make good on his threat to just resign and be done with it.  
  
"Friends are honest with each other."  
  
Would that night ever stop haunting him?  
  
"I was the last to know, wasn't I?"  
  
Part of the reason Toby had insisted on waiting to tell Sam about the President's illness was because he didn't want to see him betrayed yet again. To say that he'd had a bad year would have been a gross understatement and he had hoped that Sam . He didn't know what he'd expected, actually, but everything he'd hoped for had crashed down when Sam hadn't gone to him, hadn't gone to anyone, the night he'd learned the truth.  
  
He had asked CJ, the next week, whether Sam would ever turn to any of them again, and her answer had done nothing to reassure him.  
  
"You should have told me."  
  
Remembering the way Sam had sounded on the phone, he floored it.  
  
They hadn't meant not to tell Sam what was going on with the bill. The staff had been working on it for a while - a law proposing stronger penalties for child abuse, both physical and sexual. Unfortunately, the President had more enemies than friends, now, and they had to deal with several powerful congressmen asking for riders to be added (or, more accurately, ordering for riders to be added).  
  
They tried to negotiate, but they lacked leverage. They were still weak after Bartlet's MS disclosure and they had to think about re-election. They didn't dare to anger more people than they already had, and they were in no position to fight.  
  
Sam had worked hard with Josh on that one. But he was busy working on a speech with Toby the day Josh and Leo decided to accept the congressmen demands and somehow, they'd forgotten to tell him about it afterwards. So he'd found out two days later, during a staff meeting.  
  
Two years ago, Sam would have thrown a fit. He would have argued that the riders would kill the bill, defended, pleaded for Leo to give him a chance to call in some favours. This time, he'd just stood there while Leo broke the news to him, sincerely apologizing to him for forgetting to keep him posted, then he'd said, "Well, okay then. Do you still need me on it or can you take it from here?"  
  
Not even a word on how it was going to affect people's lives.  
  
Not a word on whether it was the right thing to do.  
  
And no one had dared to look him in the eye when he'd left the office.  
  
Earlier in the day, they'd watched the last part of the vote in Leo's office, and Sam had left after the results were called, still not saying a word.  
  
**********  
  
The first thing Toby noticed when he entered Sam's living room was the strong scent of alcohol. The second was the fact that the TV was running on CNN. The third was an open bottle on the table. Then he saw Sam, clearly unconscious, curled up on the floor in front of the sofa, still clutching the phone in his hand. The last thing, which made him feel like his heart had stopped beating for a few seconds, was a bottle of pills, open, next to Sam.  
  
He stood there, frozen, for what felt like hours before he took two steps and kneeled next to Sam. He checked for a pulse with one hand, barely remembering to breathe when he found it and dialled 911 with his other hand. Sam hadn't reacted at all to Toby's urgings to wake up, but his pulse seemed normal enough. Toby decided, on impulse, to give him a chance before calling an ambulance.  
  
He hung up before an operator could take the communication and dropped the phone on the floor, trying again to get Sam to react. When he was unsuccessful, he got up and dragged Sam into the bathroom, ranting all the way. "I swear to God, if you don't wake up within the next five minutes, I'm calling an ambulance. Sam? And I'll let you deal with CJ when the headlines slam you for drinking that much. Sam? Hear me? Sam! If you took these pills, I'm * so * kicking your ass when you wake up! Sam?"  
  
By the time they had made it to the bathroom, Sam still hadn't reacted and Toby checked his pulse again before running the shower. The communications director sighed when he saw that Sam had installed the shower in a bathtub, said tub reaching his knees. That was going to be fun. He struggled for a while to lift Sam into the tub, then struggled some more to hold him up under the flow of cold water.  
  
Toby checked his watch, deciding to give Sam exactly five minutes to wake up on his own before he called 911 again. Trying to ignore his own wet clothes clinging to his body, he shook his deputy, telling him to wake up.  
  
Four minutes had passed and Toby was about to go get his phone when Sam tried to move his head away from the flow of water, coughing weakly.  
  
Still supporting him with one arm, Toby used his free hand to push Sam's face under the water again, ordering him sternly to wake up.  
  
Sam finally opened his eyes, trying to focus, but snapped them shut again when some water went into them.  
  
"'oby?" he rasped.  
  
"I'm going to kill you!" he exploded, the relief he'd felt when he saw his deputy move evaporating when he realised what had almost happened.  
  
He saw Sam flinch and try to jerk away from him and he calmed down. "It's okay, Sam. You're going to be okay." He felt Sam trying unsuccessfully to support himself and added "I'm going to put you down now, cause you're heavier than you look."  
  
Slowly, carefully, he eased Sam down so that he was sitting in the tub but still under the water. Sam tried to close his eyes again and Toby grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Sam, if you fall asleep now, not only will I kill you, I'll ask CJ for ideas on how to do it. Do you understand?"  
  
Sam nodded slowly, opening his eyes again and looking around, looking slightly frightened. "Why - " he tried to croak before coughing again. When he could breathe again, he mumbled "Why you scream?"  
  
"Later," Toby said tersely. "First, you have to throw up whatever it is you took."  
  
When Sam just stared at him blankly, he sighed and lifted him up. Sam tried to stand on his own but would have collapsed if Toby hadn't caught him. "Don't even think about it. When you are ready to stand, I'll tell you. For now, just lean on me."  
  
Five minutes and a dozen muffled curses later, Sam was on the floor, trying very hard to hold on to his dignity while he threw up, Toby hovering near the entry of the bathroom in case he needed anything and still wondering whether he should call an ambulance or take him to the ER.  
  
"You should have told me."  
  
I know, he sighed inwardly. I know.  
  
**********  
  
Toby collapsed on the couch. Sam had been adamant about not wanting to go to an hospital and he'd managed to convince Toby that he really was okay and he hadn't taken too many pills. One look at the dosage written on the bottle of pills had confirmed that he was right.  
  
Toby had put him to bed after helping him change his clothes - Sam stubbornly maintaining that he didn't need any help, thank you very much, until Toby, exasperated, let go of his arm, allowing him to land straight on the floor. He was beginning to gain a little motor control back by the time Toby had gotten him settled in the bedroom.  
  
Once he was sure his deputy was asleep, Toby cleaned up the mess, emptying the bottle in the kitchen sink, putting the pills back in the pharmacy, taking care of their drenched clothes - he'd had to borrow some of Sam's sweat pants to replace his own suit.  
  
"Friends are honest with each other."  
  
Great. It was guilt trip time.  
  
It shouldn't have surprised him that Sam would react this badly to the news that they were not going to fight for the bill. Yet, it had. After almost five years of working with him, Sam still surprised him every day. And he still didn't understand him.  
  
Oh, on a superficial level, he did. Sam was an idealist. Fine. He had ideals, he had principles, and he lived by them. Intellectually, he knew that. But emotionally, he didn't know what it felt to be Sam, so in a way, no, he didn't truly understand him.  
  
Josh had once described Toby as a cynical idealist. Someone who had principles, and ideals, just like the rest of them, but who didn't expect any of them to actually triumph.  
  
Sam, despite the occasional exasperation that some of his crusade provoked among the senior staff, was often the one who reminded them of the reasons that had made them come to Washington in the first place.  
  
Part of Toby wanted his deputy to toughen up a little so he wouldn't be so easily hurt, but another part of him wanted him just as he was - for their sake, if not his.  
  
He was beginning to fall asleep when a small cry from the bedroom startled him. He was on his feet and through the door in a second, approaching the bed cautiously. Sam was fighting in his sleep, trying to escape something, and Toby tried to get closer without getting hit by a flailing arm.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Sam, it's - "  
  
His deputy went completely motionless, still muttering "No, no, no, no". Toby came closer and shook his shoulder lightly.  
  
"It's okay, Sam, calm down."  
  
Sam moaned softly and turned on his side, curling up. "No," he muttered again, before calming down completely.  
  
When he was sure that whatever nightmare that Sam was trapped in was over, Toby straightened up and went out, trying not to make too much noise.  
  
**********  
  
Two hours later, Toby, who had been unable to sleep, decided to connect Sam's computer to the Internet to access his mail account.  
  
When he shifted the mouse, the screen lit up and a word document appeared, the cursor blinking. Toby's eyes were drawn to the screen and he read the sentence in front of him. "It's not like I don't know that suicide is not a solution. It's just that sometimes, it would simplify my life so much - and yes, I'm aware of the irony of that."  
  
Swallowing hard, he scrolled to the top of the document and began to read it through, a part of him telling him that he didn't have any right to do this while another part argued that tonight had been close enough a call. Maybe it had been an accident, but if Sam had actually wanted to die .  
  
The story was the one of a teenager trying to tell his parents about what his uncle had done to him when he was a kid - and even though Sam didn't get into too many details, it was obvious that the uncle was more than a little sick.  
  
He was halfway through the text when a movement behind him made him turn around.  
  
Sam was watching him, his face unreadable.  
  
"Get out of here," he said, his tone even.  
  
Toby felt a chill crawling down his spine and he swallowed nervously, trying to smile. "Hey, Sam. You really shouldn't do - "  
  
"Get. Out. Of. Here."  
  
Toby stopped trying to put on a smile and just stared at him. "Look, maybe we - "  
  
"You read it," Sam said incredulously. "You had no - Get out. Now."  
  
Anger was beginning to creep in Sam's voice, and Toby, who had seen Sam really angry before, grimaced.  
  
"Yes, yes, I did read it, and - " he tried to explain.  
  
He never got to finish his sentence. Sam blindly grabbed something next to his hand (a book, and thankfully not a thick one) and hurled it at Toby, who barely managed to duck out of the way in time.  
  
The book collided against the wall and Toby watched it fall to the floor, almost fascinated.  
  
"Get out," Sam said again.  
  
"Sam," he began, his voice sounding incredulous even to his own ears.  
  
"GET OUT!"  
  
Sam had shouted, but it's when he took a step toward him that Toby put his arms up, trying to placate his friend. "I'm going. I'm going, Sam. But I don't like the idea of leaving you."  
  
When Sam took a deep breath, presumably to shout at him again, he added quickly "But I'm going. I'm going."  
  
He had barely had the time to step into the hallway when Sam slammed the door to his face. 


	2. Part 2

PART TWO  
  
The next morning  
  
The more Toby thought about it, the more surreal it seemed. Had he really found Sam, frighteningly close of an OD, just a few hours before? And had the same Sam thrown a book at his head, screaming at him to get out?  
  
He couldn't help but feeling like he should have seen it coming. The way Sam had behaved since he had learned about his father - withdrawn when he wasn't mad at someone. And the nightmares. The ones he'd noticed on the first campaign, when they shared a room, and that Sam always tried to laugh out. "I was just dreaming about you, Toby. You're scary, believe me."  
  
And back then of course he hadn't insisted. He was Toby Ziegler, and he had a reputation to think about. No way was he going to let this spoiled * young * overachieving lawyer get under his skin. He was too busy grumbling, and Sam was a grown man (albeit a * young * one). If he had problems, he would deal with them on his own, or he would talk to Josh.  
  
Josh. He had to ask him if he knew something.  
  
Maybe Josh would know where the story Sam had written had come from? Remembering some of the details almost made him sick. The story had been written in the first person, but that wasn't what disturbed him the most.  
  
What really disturbed him was the fact that there was no way that Sam could have come up with some of that on his own. Some descriptions of what the abuser had done were just too real for Sam to have imagined them.  
  
He was getting on his way to Josh's office when Bonnie poked her head in his office. "Staff in five."  
  
**********  
  
Sam stared longingly at his Tylenol, reluctant to take one after last night despite the headache that had been torturing him since he'd opened his eyes this morning.  
  
He drank a little of his coffee, not even tasting it, while gathering his notes on the next speech he was supposed to work on. Maybe working would help him to concentrate on something else.  
  
The voice startled him.  
  
"You're the one who makes me do it."  
  
He looked around before recognizing it.  
  
He had once thought that he would forget about it, that he would stop hearing it. No such luck.  
  
"It's your fault."  
  
Trying to ignore it, he went to work and began typing. He hadn't made it to the end of a sentence when he heard the voice again.  
  
"You should be happy that I'm interested in you."  
  
"Oh God," he muttered.  
  
**********  
  
They were all looking at him, damn it! He knew he didn't look like his usual neat self, but he had still assumed that he didn't look like someone who had almost .  
  
Come on, you can say it, Sam. Who had almost OD'd.  
  
Unless Toby had told them - no, he wouldn't have. He shot a look at his boss while trying not to have a panic attack. That wouldn't score him any points and he'd have to answer questions. Many of them. Because even if the staff had grown apart in the last few months, they still tended to close ranks when one of them was in a bad place.  
  
He got his breathing back under control and tried to focus on what Leo was saying. He was getting started on the bill again, and . great, they were all studiously looking everywhere but in his direction.  
  
Truth was, he could have lived with it. He understood all the political reasons not to do it. He understood that it was election year and they had to act very carefully. He knew that as soon as Bartlet was re-elected, he would try to pass another one. He knew all that.  
  
He believed Leo when he told him that they had honestly forgotten to keep him informed. But to him, it seemed like a symptom of what his place was in the senior staff.  
  
He felt like they were putting him aside for no good reason, except perhaps that he'd become less adept at hiding his disappointments.  
  
"Your fault. All your fault," the voice whispered to him.  
  
He shivered and waited for the meeting to be over so he could get back to his office.  
  
**********  
  
Toby sighed in frustration, suddenly aware that he'd been reading the same line of the draft Sam had put on his desk for the last five minutes without paying any attention to it.  
  
He couldn't help but wonder - still that haunting question. Was it for real?  
  
He wouldn't have believed it - wouldn't even have wondered about it - the night before. But Sam's reaction when he'd seen Toby reading the story still sent chills down his spine. The fact that Sam had gone from depression to anger in the blink of an eye was also a dead give away that something was very wrong. Sam was never that volatile. He always made a point of hiding his feeling, of looking in control of himself.  
  
Plus . how could Sam, of all people, have thought about all those details?  
  
He had to go see Josh.  
  
**********  
  
Josh was busy on the phone, so Toby hovered near the door, waiting for him to finish before he entered.  
  
He hesitated before going straight to the point. "Did you notice anything . off, with Sam?" he asked, unable to find a better way to phrase his question.  
  
"You mean, since he was been told about the bill?"  
  
"Yes. He ."  
  
"He's not making eye contact with me," he wanted to say, but somehow it seemed ridiculous now, in Josh's presence, away from all the brooding thoughts that had been on his mind all day. "He seems to be taking it personally," he finally settled on.  
  
"Yeah, well . who isn't? I mean, it's kids. Everyone feels involved in these kind of projects."  
  
"Yes, I'm just saying . he seems to be taking it . * personally, * " he emphasised.  
  
Realisation finally seemed to dawn on Josh. "What, you mean, like there's something in his life that ." He stopped and shot a hard look at Toby. "You've got to be kidding," he said disgustedly, before beginning to talk in clipped sentences, his tone rising with each word. "Toby, how could . There's no way . Sam wouldn't ." The younger man stopped and took in a few breaths, obviously trying to compose himself. "No way," he said at last, looking straight at Toby. "I'd know it, for starters. And . No way."  
  
"You haven't been that kind of close for a while now, Josh," Toby pointed out. "No one has been that kind of close around here for a while."  
  
"Yes, but ." Josh looked slightly hurt. "Look, for a few years there, Sam and I were best friends. There's little we didn't tell each other about our lives. I would know."  
  
Toby suddenly wondered if Josh would tell him if he did indeed know something, but the younger man seemed honest enough.  
  
Still . Josh didn't know everything about Sam, nobody did. Mostly because Sam was good at concealing what he wanted to. And also because there's no way to know anyone completely.  
  
"Look, he's just been . It's probably the last few months that are catching up with him," Josh tried to rationalize. "He'll be himself again soon enough. I'd have thought that you'd be happy he was a little less . you know . him."  
  
Toby bit back an angry retort. Sam would be fine, and so would Josh. CJ was great, of course, and he himself was at the top of his game, thank you for asking, nothing to see here.  
  
The senior staff looked like the survivors from a train wreck, but everything was just dandy.  
  
He was suddenly very aware of the fact that they weren't dealing with things so much as they were waiting for them to pass. Like they had after Rosslyn, and they all knew the consequences of that.  
  
Only . were they in any shape to handle more than the professional troubles thrown their way? Did they have anything left in them to fight personal battles as well?  
  
Did he have the right to let Sam deal on his own with whatever was eating him ?  
  
Making his decision, he left Josh with a grumbled thanks and headed back to the communication bullpen.  
  
**********  
  
He'd noticed the way Toby kept showing up on his doorstep every half hour, never really looking him in the eyes, never daring to ask the question he knew he wanted to. Well, the two questions, actually.  
  
He was counting on the fact that the fences the senior staff had erected between them and everyone else would once again work their magic and he would be able to avoid the issue.  
  
He had almost taken his phone to call his brother five times that day. He'd recoiled at the last moment, but he couldn't get rid of the urge to talk to someone about this. Someone who already knew, preferably, so he wouldn't have to explain himself in detail. He had almost called his therapist, too - a retired psychologist who still did a few of her clients a favour by letting them vent on her. He'd met her when he was working on the Hill, a few centuries ago, it seemed.  
  
He'd tried to bury himself into his work too, but that hadn't worked in the least.  
  
And he knew that drinking was out of the question for a while. Toby would have his head if he caught him hung over. He still wondered why his boss hadn't called 911 the last night, or at least dragged him to the ER. But he could guess that it had a lot to do with the "Senior staff member tries to kill himself" headlines that would undoubtedly have followed.  
  
"All your fault," muttered the voice - the voice of his godfather, who had died twenty-two years ago.  
  
The one who'd created this mess.  
  
It had been years since he had heard that voice taunting him. It was well before the campaign, in his early days at Gage Whitney, before he even knew Lisa.  
  
It usually took a couple of therapy sessions to make it go away, but it always did, eventually. Back in college, he was sure that this voice was going to drive him insane, but now he was confident he would be able to brush it away again.  
  
Until the next time.  
  
There was always a next time.  
  
Sighing, he took the card Joyce had left him - his favourite therapist, even if once upon a time, he ended every session screaming obscenities at her. And when he'd ran short in English, he switched to Spanish and then French. Thinking back about it made him blush. She'd once teased him that for such a clean-cut man, he sure had quite an interesting vocabulary. He'd told her that he had picked it up on boats, when he was working during the summer, and she'd laughed a lot at that. "I didn't think you had learn that in Princeton," she'd said.  
  
She was great, she was probably the reason he was still alive, and he was going to call her first thing tomorrow morning.  
  
Having reached a decision, he went back to work. 


	3. Part 3

PART THREE  
  
Toby was staring at his computer. He'd been battling his suspicions all day, telling himself that there was no way, absolutely no way, Sam's story could have been based on something that had happened to him personally.  
  
No, there was no way something like that had happened to his deputy.  
  
Yet a small voice kept reviving his doubts. "Can you be sure?"  
  
Yes, he could. No way. Not Sam.  
  
"And the reason he was so mad at you was because .?"  
  
"Well, bad day, bad night, OD, I read something he didn't want me to read - "  
  
"Interesting you should mention that. Why did he OD? Why didn't he want you to read - "  
  
"No. Way."  
  
"How can you be sure?"  
  
"I know him."  
  
"Can you really know a person * that * well?"  
  
"Not Sam."  
  
"How can you be sure?"  
  
He couldn't.  
  
And he had to know, because he couldn't bear the thought of Sam carrying * that * alone.  
  
**********  
  
Sam felt Toby appear at the doorway before he actually saw him - the air seemed to physically tense when his boss entered the room and closed the door.  
  
Toby sat and stared at him for a while before stating, almost fearfully "There's been something on my mind."  
  
"Yeah?" Sam managed to choke out when Toby didn't seem inclined to pursue his line of thought.  
  
"Yes, it's . hum . you seem to be taking . Sam, this bill."  
  
Sam was momentarily so relieved to see that Toby didn't actually want to talk about what had happened last night that he let his guard down (which, he would later reflect, had probably been Toby's plan all along). So he wasn't prepared for what came next.  
  
"You took it so personally, and - " Toby raised a hand to silence him when he tried to say that he'd already had that talk with Leo. "You take your job at heart, as we all do, but it's not what's happening here, is it? It's like something that happened in your life made you - "  
  
Sam stopped paying attention when the walls seemed to close in on him violently all of a sudden. He had to close his eyes and breathe slowly, while a panicked voice told him "He knows. HE KNOWS!"  
  
It took him a moment to regain enough of his composure to realise that Toby didn't know anything for a fact, that he just had suspicions. And he'd stopped talking, so opening his eyes and looking a little less on the verge of passing out would probably be in order, too.  
  
Raising his head carefully, he saw Toby, still across his desk looking at him with barely concealed concern.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"You're imagining things, Toby," he said, willing his voice to be firm.  
  
"Oh, and that's the reason you almost hyperventilated not two minutes ago when I tried to - "  
  
"Toby, there's nothing going on. It's fine, I'm just . disappointed the law had to be changed."  
  
He would never have allowed even that to slip out under normal circumstances, but maybe a little truth would placate Toby enough to make him drop it. Maybe if he gave him just enough he'd leave it at that. He wanted - needed - to talk about it, but not with one of his colleagues, and certainly not with Toby, of all people.  
  
"I don't think it's just that," Toby said calmly, showing no intention of leaving it at that. Great.  
  
"I think there's more behind that," Toby continued, "something that has to do with your nightmares."  
  
Something must have shown on his face because Toby said patiently, "Yes, you had one last night. And it wasn't the first one either, we've shared rooms often enough for me to have noticed."  
  
Sam didn't have anything to say to that so he let Toby go on, hoping it would be over soon.  
  
"And I wonder if . and if you just tell me 'no', I'll leave it at that, but I think it has something to do with the story you were working on."  
  
Sam tried to get a word out - anything, preferably the 'no' Toby was expecting, was hoping for even, but anything would do really.  
  
Nothing came.  
  
He closed his mouth, took a deep breath and tried again.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm going to get sick," he said, getting up.  
  
Toby stared at him and he tried to say something again but his stomach constricted violently. With an apologetic glance to his boss, he fled the room.  
  
**********  
  
Toby found Sam kneeling in the men's room, trying to throw up - which he would have had more success doing if he'd actually eaten anything that day. As it was, his deputy was reduced to dry heaves and Toby grimaced at the choking sounds he was making.  
  
When he seemed to be done, Toby took him by the arm and helped him off the floor, then waited until he'd rinsed his mouth and splashed water on his face.  
  
When he tried to talk, Toby interrupted him. "Later. Now, we're going to get your stuff and take you home."  
  
They left the building without another word.  
  
**********  
  
They were at Sam's again, in the kitchen. Toby had decided that his deputy needed to eat something, so Sam was trying to make some sandwiches with what was left in the fridge. He had to be a little creative, but he finally managed it and he and his boss spent the next half hour eating and trying to think of something to say that wouldn't lead them to dangerous places.  
  
Sam could tell that Toby was waiting for the right moment - if such a time existed - to bring it up again. Try as he might, he couldn't possibly get prepared to that, and the next question hit him hard.  
  
"Before you had to . ahem . go out ." Toby began as they were cleaning up the table.  
  
Sam blushed slightly, still embarrassed at having his boss see him so violently sick twice in a row, and concentrated on putting the dishes in a neat pile in the sink.  
  
"We were discussing . hum ."  
  
Sam could tell it was difficult for Toby. He would have had to be blind not to see it. But he couldn't understand why his boss was so persistent. It wasn't like Toby to pester his deputy when he obviously didn't want to talk about it. Except after the drop in, of course. And after the MS. And after his father.  
  
Oh, OK, so it was like Toby to want to talk about the things that upset him. It still didn't make it any easier.  
  
He sighed and tried to think of something to say. "No Toby, it was just a story" would have been a smart move. Toby would leave if he said that. Seven simple words, really, and Toby would be out, and he would be alone and he could spend the night trying not to think about any of it.  
  
Suddenly that prospect seemed almost unbearable.  
  
What was wrong with him?  
  
And abruptly, there it was. THE question, the one they'd been dancing around all day, the one he'd been dreading all day.  
  
"Sam, did it happen to you?" 


	4. Part 4

PART FOUR  
  
Sam had stopped moving. He had stopped breathing. He couldn't talk, not yet.  
  
And he was hearing * him * again.  
  
"If you ever, ever tell anyone, I'll take care of your brother."  
  
He thought irrationally, "I can't tell Toby, Franck - " before the rational part of his mind pointed out that decades had passed, that * he * was dead, that Franck had survived.  
  
Part of him was sincerely trying to answer Toby (who hadn't moved at all either) but he was petrified.  
  
Never, not in a million years, had he thought that Toby would be the one to ask. The one to suspect.  
  
Josh, sure, maybe CJ, but Toby?  
  
The question hung in the air and he was sure he had already heard it before, or a variation of it.  
  
Then it came back. His roommate at Princeton, who had dragged him to a therapist. When a long time after that, he'd asked how he'd known, his friend had simply answered, "That look you get sometimes . each time someone is standing too close to you . I see it sometimes. In the mirror." He'd cried at that.  
  
Toby was still looking at him, and still not moving. "Sam?" he asked tentatively.  
  
Another memory came to the surface. His father, sitting him down on his bed one bright morning in July, saying carefully, "Sam, honey, I'm afraid your godfather passed away." He'd cried, and his parents had thought that he was sad, but it was relief that made him stay in bed all day.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
He was paid for his words.  
  
Yet he'd never been able to form the right words for that. It had taken him two years of therapy before being able to describe what had been done to him. But the way it had destroyed him, what he had felt when his godfather entered his room, when the mattress shifted as he sat on it, putting his hand directly on his ass, the mind-numbing, paralysing terror because he knew what was coming and he couldn't do anything to stop it . he'd never found the right words to express that.  
  
He looked at Toby, wondering how he could explain all that to him - wanting to tell him that he would have liked to answer his question, but that he didn't know the words to explain it - and his friend asked again, almost fearfully, "Did it?"  
  
And the only word he could think of to sum it up, the only one within his reach, was "Yes".  
  
**********  
  
The silence stretched on for a while, then Toby whispered, "Sam?"  
  
"Go away," he sighed.  
  
"No."  
  
"Toby ." Seemingly at a loss for words, Sam just gestured vaguely.  
  
"I'm not leaving now," Toby stated, his tone even. No way was he leaving Sam like that, after what he'd just said. No way was he leaving Sam here to wonder what Toby thought of him now.  
  
"Toby," Sam said, pleadingly this time.  
  
"No. I . God, I don't know what to say, Sam, but . Look, you have every right to be - "  
  
"Right?" Sam repeated, a little stunned. "You . you . Do you have any idea how much time it took for me to forget the way he touched me? The contact of his hands on . It's been . It's been years, decades, and sometimes I still can't sleep without a light in the room, Toby."  
  
Toby thought back of all these nights when Sam insisted on sleeping with the TV on. The way he joked that he was "scared without his Mom", in that self depreciating manner Sam used to make fun of himself sometimes.  
  
"That son of a bitch tied me up to the bed and you tell me I have rights?" His voice had gone from loud to painfully loud and Toby noticed, slightly panicked, that he seemed to have a hard time breathing. Before he could think about it, Sam grabbed the corner of the kitchen table to hold himself up.  
  
Toby took a step forward and eased his deputy on the floor as his legs gave out, before sitting next to him, his hand on his shoulder.  
  
Sam fought a few minutes before calming down a little. He had put his face in his hands, and Toby could only hear his muffled voice when he began to talk again. "I asked him . I begged him to stop. Every single time. And he . he kept telling me that it was all my fault. That I was sending him signals. I was seven the first time, and I didn't even know what kind of signals . And I know that, I know that Toby, but part of me is still convinced that I really did something wrong, because how could something like that happen to me if I hadn't done anything to deserve it?"  
  
Toby, who had wanted to know so much, didn't know what to do or what to say anymore. So he just sat there, his hand squeezing his deputy's shoulder a little more forcefully.  
  
"And he just kept coming, and I didn't dare to go to sleep when I was staying at his place, because I just * knew * the door would open, and he would come, come in, and God it hurt so much when he came."  
  
Toby remembered his rabbi telling him that vengeance was not Jewish, and he thought that if the man who'd done that to Sam was in the room right now, he would kill him himself.  
  
Sam, who seemed to have forgotten he was there, went on "He kept coming, again, and again, and I couldn't stop him. I never wanted him to do that, Toby, I swear I didn't, but I couldn't stop him."  
  
Toby didn't know what to say. He put words in the mouth of the President and right now, it seemed like the most futile thing in the world, because his deputy - his friend - was asking for his help and he had no idea what to say.  
  
And when Sam finally stopped talking, all he could think of was "Sam."  
  
"Go away now," Sam breathed.  
  
"No."  
  
"Why?" Sam asked almost plaintively.  
  
"Because."  
  
Toby grimaced. He was a successful speechwriter, for God's sake. He was supposed to be able to do better that that.  
  
"Very eloquent, Toby ." Sam said weakly, closing his eyes. "Look, I'm sorry."  
  
"No. You will NOT apologize for something that's not your fault. I ." Toby stopped rambling and asked "Who did it ?"  
  
"What does it matter?" Sam shrugged.  
  
"What does it ." Toby repeated incredulously before saying "Sam, it does."  
  
"No. He's dead. He died years ago."  
  
"Who?" Toby asked, his tone brooking no argument.  
  
"My godfather." He should have been relieved when Sam answered him, but the tone of his voice, the defeatism . "A high school friend of my mother. She . she always admired the way he was getting along with me."  
  
Sam chuckled bitterly at the irony, but Toby suddenly had a disturbing thought and he asked before thinking of the potential consequences "Did she know?"  
  
"NO!" Sam exclaimed. "Toby, she . she . as far as I know, she can go to her grave not knowing, okay?"  
  
"You never ."  
  
He didn't know how to ask that in a non-accusatory manner, but Sam understood anyway, and shrugged out of his touch, clearly on the defensive. "He said . he said he'd do the same to my brother. Franck. He said that Franck too sent signals, he said that the only reason he didn't was that I - "  
  
Sam abruptly stopped talking but Toby already had quite a vivid picture of what had probably happened.  
  
"It's only when Franck tried to . kill . himself, ten years ago, it's later, at the hospital, that I learned that he'd done it anyway."  
  
"Oh God," Toby muttered. The only thing that came to his mind right now.  
  
"I doubt - I sincerely hope He had nothing to do with that," Sam said bitterly.  
  
There was an awkward pause, and Toby looked for a way to bring the conversation back on track.  
  
**********  
  
Sam could tell from the way Toby was looking at him what the next question was going to be.  
  
"Your father?"  
  
"What about him?" Sam asked, suddenly decided not to make Toby's life easier.  
  
"He ."  
  
Sam sighed and went on with the story. "When my brother woke up, at the hospital, he told us everything."  
  
At the hospital. His brother, lying in his blood. The red blood everywhere. It was what he remembered the most. He had been the one to find his brother, and he suddenly wondered what Toby saw when he found him the previous night. And for that, because Toby had found him, he decided to answer the next question he'd ask.  
  
"He didn't - "  
  
Sam could still remember the hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Sam, please, tell me that it's not true, what your brother said."  
  
The feeling he had, like he'd lost everything. He hadn't told, the five years it went on or after, it was the only thing he thought he'd managed to do well, protect his brother, and it was only then that he realized that it was just another illusion, and his world shattered around him and the only thing holding him to this world, anchoring him, was his father's hand, and his voice, asking softly, "Sam? Son?"  
  
Like Toby who kept repeating his name over and over again, because he couldn't find anything else to say, his father had said his name, several times, until Sam could finally bring himself to look up from the floor and focus on the wall instead.  
  
His father had grabbed his chin to try to make Sam look at him, and when he finally gathered enough strength to look at his father's face, and realised he couldn't find an ounce of judgement in his eyes, and he managed to mutter, "It's true," before looking down again.  
  
Because he'd always had a doubt, he asked, "Did you - ", and his father didn't even let him finish his sentence.  
  
"Sam, if I had known, friend of the family or not, I would have bought a weapon, I would have found him and I would have killed him myself."  
  
Sam had burst out in tears at that, in the hospital hallway, and his father had hugged him hard, a bone crashing hug, while his mother watched over the younger brother he hadn't been able to protect.  
  
He looked at Toby and whispered, "No. He knows now. But he didn't know then."  
  
He knew that his father had committed other sins and part of him would forever wonder if all that would have happened had his father been more present in his life. However, there was no longer any doubt about it in his mind : his father hadn't known. He knew he had hurt his father that night, simply by asking him, but he didn't doubt anymore, and a sudden surge of hate ran trough him when he realised that the monster who had taken so much away from him had made him doubt his father.  
  
To Toby, who was still looking at him, he said again "He didn't know."  
  
With the uncanny ability he seemed to have to read his boss' mind that night, Sam knew what his suggestion was going to be even before Toby actually said it.  
  
"Sam, maybe you should - "  
  
"I already see a therapist, Toby. Occasionally."  
  
He didn't add that he hadn't seen her since the early days of the administration, that he hadn't felt the need to until the day he'd begun to work on this bill.  
  
He always felt that whenever the words "sexual abuse" were spoken, they were directed at him personally. And he always felt vaguely guilty about that.  
  
"Call him," Toby ordered.  
  
"Her," Sam corrected. "Yeah, I know."  
  
"Is there anything - "  
  
"No. You . you've done enough."  
  
He didn't mean it to sound like an accusation but Toby seemed to take it that way all the same.  
  
"Toby, this law - "  
  
"Sam . I think . I know we need better protections but - "  
  
"One step at a time, yeah, so I've been told."  
  
And he didn't care if that sounded bitter. He thought back about his struggle to grow up, to just survive until the next day, and the next, and the next, the insomnia, the hours spent crying, and he didn't think any punishment could ever be severe enough for these kind of crimes. And when he thought about it, he had to make a conscious effort to remind himself that he was against the death penalty.  
  
"Sam?" Toby asked and suddenly he couldn't bear to hear his name.  
  
"Could you . Please, could you just stop saying my name? I know, I know you don't know what to say, and to be honest, I have no idea what to do next, but please, just please, stop saying my name."  
  
"I - "  
  
Suddenly, it dawned on him. Toby still hadn't asked him about last night, but he probably hadn't thought about anything else all day. "Toby," Sam began, "I wasn't trying to kill myself. I pretty much got over that the night my brother .God ." He took a breath and began again. "I was just trying to get to sleep. I took those pills because I was so drunk I didn't even remember I was drunk. I'm sorry I scared you, I am, believe me, I found Franck, and I'm sorry. But I' wasn't trying . I'm living with it, okay?"  
  
Somewhere during his speech, Toby's hand had found its way to his shoulder again, and was squeezing. "What you wrote ."  
  
"Was for me only. I do that sometimes. Because . it helps."  
  
He wanted to say "Because I'm a writer, and I have that in my blood, and that's probably the only thing he didn't take away from me". But he didn't say it, he didn't need to, not really, because it was Toby, and Toby exorcised his own demons in his writing every day. Toby knew.  
  
Toby, who had come here tonight and didn't look at him in judgement. Toby, who was looking at him straight in the eyes, without pity, just a touch of sadness and compassion, and something else he couldn't quite define.  
  
They didn't say another word as Toby helped him up, helped him to his room, helped him into his bed once again.  
  
Toby then switched off the lights, but left the door slightly open and Sam drifted to sleep hearing his boss - his friend - getting settled on the couch. 


	5. Part 5

PART FIVE  
  
Toby woke up and took a moment to remember what he was doing on Sam's couch. Then the last night came back to him and he flinched. He couldn't believe what Sam had told him last night; couldn't believe what had happened. And he'd never even suspected it.  
  
What the hell was he supposed to do now? What was he going to tell Sam? Was he even supposed to say anything?  
  
He knew all too well that he should tell his deputy to go see a therapist but it was obviously something Sam did on his own when he felt the need to.  
  
Toby knew he had to make sure Sam knew he could turn to him, but he didn't expect his deputy to actually come to him with it again. He would undoubtedly be embarrassed, and wouldn't want to burden him with his problems.  
  
Nevertheless, he wasn't about to leave it at that.  
  
There was just no way Sam had to live with that on his own again.  
  
Trying to make a decision based on what he knew about his deputy, he decided that the best way to go was to be here without being obtrusive about it. If he insisted too much, Sam would just shut him out completely. The tactic might work on work related issues, but given Sam's reactions last night, he wasn't about to cause him to snap.  
  
Plus . Toby admitted he wasn't a trained therapist (and he would call a friend of his later in the day), but he wasn't * that * worried about him. He was . he couldn't really pinpoint what he was yet, but he wasn't worried. He believed Sam when he said that he hadn't been trying to kill himself, and he would watch him to catch any allusion he might make, but he didn't think it was that. He'd been angry, and revolted, and embarrassed at admitting it, but not suicidal, and not dangerously depressed.  
  
Making a note to himself to call his psychologist friend, he decided to watch Sam for suicidal signs, excessive drinking, and signs of depression, and leave his deputy in peace.  
  
Sam had obviously managed to find a way to live with it - as much as it was possible.  
  
And in the meantime, he needed to go to the synagogue to ask his rabbi to talk to him about vengeance and forgiveness again. He fleetingly wondered how Sam could stand living with it after having been through it when even hearing about it left him feeling . dirty, somehow.  
  
Getting up, he sneaked a glance in the bedroom and had to smile. His deputy was fast asleep, curled up on his side, clutching a pillow tightly. Checking that the alarm wasn't set, he left silently, deciding to let Sam have a day off.  
  
Getting a piece of paper in the living room, he wrote a quick note and left.  
  
**********  
  
Sam woke up and blearily shot a look at his alarm clock before closing his eyes again, the red numbers floating in front of his eyes even after he'd closed them.  
  
Then suddenly, they registered.  
  
9.20  
  
He shot up in his bed, shouting "Toby!"  
  
When he didn't get an answer, he ran to the living room and found it empty, the cover his boss had used for the night neatly folded on the couch. He was about to call his boss and go ballistic on him for letting him sleep when he spotted a note on the table.  
  
Dreading whatever was written on it (what was his boss afraid of telling him?), he carefully unfolded it and took a breath before reading it.  
  
Sam,  
  
You're better when you write than when you speak - as am I.  
  
A few things :  
  
First, you have the day off. I'll tell everyone you're sick. Take it while you can get it.  
  
Second, we don't have to talk about it again, but should you need and/or want too - I'm here.  
  
Third, I won't tell anyone so don't worry about it. Not that I fear they would think any less of you - God knows I don't - but because it's not my story to tell. Maybe I was wrong to push, and if so forgive me, but that's the way it is.  
  
Finish this story if it helps you. Even if it's for you only.  
  
You're the strongest person I know, don't even begin to think otherwise.  
  
Toby  
  
He stared hard at the note, almost afraid to believe it, then smiled and sat down on the couch. He should have guessed what Toby's reaction would be, but he'd been afraid to hope for it.  
  
He knew, intellectually, that what had happened was not his fault. His father, his friend, his therapists had insisted on it. But he still wasn't convinced. Maybe because he was a man, and men weren't supposed to go through that. Maybe because sometimes, his godfather told him that he should protest harder if he truly didn't want to - as if a shouted "No" wasn't clear enough an answer.  
  
It had always been a subject of dark humour between him and Franck - they spent so much time trying to convince each other that it wasn't the other's fault. Each of them believed that it was HIS own fault and not his brother's.  
  
He sighed. He should call him. And while he was at it, he should call Joyce and ask her if she was free for a session later in the day.  
  
But first, he needed a shower.  
  
Leaving the note in the living room, he went to the bathroom and turned the shower on, stripping off his clothes. He always felt sore when he'd slept in his suit, and today was no exception. Or maybe it was the act of having dug into his past that left him feeling dirty.  
  
He shaved while the water reached his favourite temperature (as hot as possible, just a few microns short of painful) and stepped into the shower, savouring the sensation of the water rushing down on him soothingly.  
  
An unwelcome thought intruded - at least, he never took you under the shower. In a bathtub a few times, but never under the shower, so he preferred the showers, and how pathetic was it for him to be glad that he hadn't developed an aversion for showers?  
  
Pushing the thought away with a conscious effort, he focused on the water, still too warm, and tried to relax.  
  
The water was running cold when he stepped out and he shivered, hurriedly drying off and getting faded jeans on, then the dark sweater that always caused the women of the West Wing to take a second glance - much to Josh's consternation.  
  
He poured himself a cup of coffee and went back to the living room, taking Toby's note and reading it again, then folding it and looking for a place to keep it. Going to the shelves, he grabbed the grammar book Toby had bought him for their first Christmas in the White House. It was a gift that had made everyone laugh pretty hard, but Sam had understood the meaning behind the joke, just as Toby had seemed to understand that his "thank you" had meant more than just that, too.  
  
People who met them usually thought that they were going to kill each other, but they both knew where they stood with each other and what they wanted out of this relationship.  
  
He just hoped last night hadn't changed that.  
  
He hoped Toby wouldn't look at him differently - it was one of the reasons he didn't tell anyone; the numbing fear that they would never see how he'd changed since that time, how he'd managed to find a way to live with it. It probably wasn't fair to his friends, but his therapists had insisted more than once that while thinking of everybody else before himself was noble, it was not really healthy.  
  
The other reason was that despite all the years that had passed, he still felt humiliated. He knew Toby thought he was embarrassed at having been seen that way, and he was, but the embarrassment was nothing compared to the gut wrenching humiliation he still felt at having been forced to do all those things.  
  
He hadn't even told all of it to Joyce. Some of it he would never tell anyone.  
  
It suddenly struck him that there were fewer people in the world who knew about it that there had been who had known about the President's illness.  
  
His father, his brother, two therapists, his college friend and now Toby.  
  
Even Lisa had never known, even though she had suspected something. How could she not have noticed the way he flinched out of her touch sometimes, because he had a flash back all of a sudden, because it became too much a reminder of his godfather? Yet, even one night when he'd had to lock himself in the bathroom and she'd flat out asked him what had happened, he'd never been able to tell her. He knew now that she wasn't the one. The fact that he could never tell her, not even after the proposal, not after that night, should have told him something, he knew that now. He still wondered, though, if he'd be able to tell whomever it was he would marry.  
  
A few years ago, he was wondering if it would be with him all his life, but now he knew that, yes, it would. The abuse had stopped the day his godfather had died, but he was still dealing with it more than twenty years later.  
  
His godfather's death had saved him from a few more years of that hell, but how he would have preferred to see the man in jail for the rest of his life. It had been too easy for his godfather. The man was dead and he didn't have to deal with anything. Yet, there were Sam and Franck, still trying to come to grips with it, still sabotaging every relationship they were in with women for fear of intimacy, still afraid to tell their closest friends for fear of what they would think.  
  
What was going to happen in the office?  
  
The phone rang, interrupting his reverie, and the answering machine picked up.  
  
"Sam, it's Toby. Just because I let you take a day off doesn't mean you get to sleep all day. I want your thoughts on the after dinner speech first thing tomorrow."  
  
Sam smiled, not bothering to pick up. He knew what his boss was trying to do and he wasn't about to spoil it.  
  
Turning on his computer, he sat down and got ready to begin. Toby valued normalcy and the easiness of their relationship almost as much as he did. Yes, he would make sure Sam was all right, but he wasn't about to turn into a mother-hen on him, which was a relief.  
  
As for the rest . His therapist had taught him that he had to take it one day at a time, and he was actually getting good at it.  
  
For now, he had an after diner speech to write, and possibly a story to finish. He knew he'd erase it from his computer as soon as it was done, just like he had with all the others, but sometimes it felt good to try to look at it from an outside perspective even if it was just for a few hours.  
  
That had been Joyce's greatest gift to him, the day she'd dragged him on the street and showed him a little boy, around ten, walking hand in hand with his father.  
  
"Look at him. For all you know, that man is abusing his son. You had moments like that with your uncle, didn't you?"  
  
They had had moments like that, yes. Moments when they pretended everything was normal.  
  
"Do you think it would be the fault of this boy if he wasn't able to push back a grown man twice his side, a man he trusts, a man who has a legitimate authority on him, on top of it?"  
  
Sam had had to answer no. Which didn't make the fact that it had happened to him less horrible, of course, but it probably had been the beginning of an understanding that it was not his fault.  
  
And maybe, just maybe, one day, he would feel comfortable enough to tell the rest of his friends what he'd lived through. For now, he was actually comfortable with one of them knowing.  
  
"One day at a time," he thought, creating a new document, watching the cursor blinking. "One day at a time."  
  
THE END 


End file.
